A Kill For The Crown - Part 1
by double0tyson
Summary: Part one of a short story. 007 meets his superior, M, in a private lounge to be given a difficult assignment.


It was late, and the upstairs lounge at Le Classique was empty but for two men sitting together quietly at the marble-topped bar in the center of the dimly lit room,

One of them neared 60, though a stranger could be forgiven for thinking he was much older. It's possible, in another life — perhaps in a world that didn't curse some men with the morally ambiguous job of maintaining peace and order — that he would have aged a bit more gracefully. But the years of mandatory stoicism in the face of a million impossible decisions had cut deep lines into his forehead and carved dark trenches between his pale blue eyes and wrinkled cheeks.

His thinning hair, which he kept neatly combed to the left, had not yet greyed but was in slow retreat, and his lips were thin, colorless, and surrounded by a hundred, microscopic nicks that had appeared after far too many years of tobacco use. The man was worn and tired, and on most evenings, he longed for retirement. But for reasons that escaped him, he found himself bound by an inexplicable sense of honor that wouldn't allow him to stop. Not yet.

The other man was younger by about 15 years and was dressed in a dark, Tom Ford windowpane suit that was tailored with absolute precision. He sat with impeccable posture and his face was clean shaven and without blemish.

To the average citizen passing by on the crowded streets of London, there was nothing about his appearance that would suggest he was anything other than a wealthy executive for Transworld Consortium who lived in a posh flat in Chelsea, kept to his work, and often voted Conservative. Beneath the bespoke jacket and bright white cotton shirt, however, his body told a different story. Thick, misshapen knife scars crawled across both sides of his ribcage, serving as a memorial wall for all the men — and women — who had sought to take his life. On his chest, he bore the jagged remnants of an entry wound from the Glock 18 that had once belonged to an assassin named Patrice. Occasionally, he would move or strain in a way that would cause the scar to light up with a dull pain, and he would see images of the tight streets of Istanbul in his mind.

As they looked on, the barman — a rather chubby fellow in the traditional black slacks, matching button up shirt, and bow tie— carefully poured three measures of Gordon's gin into stainless steel sidecar full of ice. He followed it with a measure of vodka, and lastly, a half measure of Cocchi Americano, shook it vigorously and poured the mixture into a wide, stemmed cocktail glass. Then, using a small paring knife, he sliced a twisted sliver of rind off a lemon and dropped it into the drink. With a careful hand, the barman pushed the glass across the marble towards the younger of the two.

"Here you are, Mr. Bond."

Bond gave a half grin of acknowledgment and pulled the glass to his lips.

"I hope you don't mind the substitution," the barman said. "We've finally run out of Kina Lillet, and I'm afraid we've had considerable trouble getting another bottle."

"It's perfect," Bond replied. "Thank you. And I'm sorry, but I think you'll need to leave us now. Come back in 15 minutes. I'll be ready for another."

"A moment," said the older man. He held up a think cigar between his finger and thumb. "Could you find me an ashtray, please?"

"Dreadfully sorry, sir, but we have none," replied the barman. "Besides, Mr. Gerard has asked you don't smoke that here."

"To hell with, Gerard," he replied gruffly. "There's no one else here. Give me a glass and open a damn window. I'll have it out with your manager later." He turned to Bond. "All these years running the circus and he tells me I can't smoke, can you believe it?"

The barman gave a surrendering nod and did as he was told. The older gentleman cut the tip of his cigar and grumbled to himself about something unintelligible. Bond didn't speak. He just sipped his drink and allowed his superior time to gather his thoughts.

M had always been an irritable man, even before he'd taken over as head of MI6. Bond recalled their first meeting inside one of the drab offices of Q Branch some years before and how he had initially taken him as another naive bureaucrat. Since then, however, M had proven himself as a formidable leader who understood all too well that there was still much work to be done in the shadows.

He had always been straight with Bond about whatever it was that needed to be done. But based on M's attitude and hesitance to speak, Bond expected a less than pleasant assignment. This was confirmed when M finally lit the cigar, took a long drag, and said, "You know, 007, I don't enjoy asking this of you."

Bond braced for what would come next. "Then perhaps it's best to jump right in, sir," he said dryly.

M pulled hard on the cigar again.

"It's always been a nasty business, hasn't it?" he said. "And now that the machines are doing most of the work, it seems that nasty bits are all that's left for us. Still, you understand the territory here. We've had our final meeting on the matter, and everyone on the Joint Committee is in agreement. We need you to cut the head off a snake."

"Sir," Bond submitted. M continued.

"You'll be after a man named Jasper Carine," he said. "He's American."

"Are they okay with that?" Bond asked.

"Your friend Felix seems to think so. Besides, Carine hasn't lived in the states for nearly 5 years. He's been operating in Ukraine as a corporate consultant, and he's made good money doing it. It's been a painstaking process, but we now believe his firm a front. Everything points to Carine as the overall mastermind behind the recent wave of cyber attacks in the UK."

"Yes," Bond said. "Caused a bit of chaos in the markets lately, Parliament, too."

"For whatever absurd reason, this is one area where the enemy is often a step ahead. They're outpacing us. But now that we've got one on the top, we need to send a message."

"I understand the threat," Bond said, "but why not bring him in alive?

M let the cigar smoke escape slowly across his lips.

"Because sometimes the old rules still apply, 007. And besides, with everyone at each other's throats all the time, it'd be impossible to get the other governments to cooperate for extradition. This is for the crown and only the crown. Can you do this? It's been a while."

Bond took a large, final drink of his cocktail.

"I'm not out of practice if that's what you're concerned with."

"Good," M replied. "Clean as you can, but ensure no one can mistake it for an accident. And bring any devices or hardware you can find back home for analysis."

M reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, took out a small flash drive and passed it across the bar to Bond.

"The rest of the information is here. Where he is, where you're going, details from our investigation. You're to view that on MI6 sanctioned devices only. Read it, memorize it. Take notes if you need to, but only on paper. Q will be by tomorrow to pick it up. He may also have a few things for you."

Bond took the flash drive, examined it under the pale bar light, and then placed it in his coat pocket.

"Anything else to know, sir?" Bond asked.

M gave a sigh, took out another cigar, and tossed it at Bond.

"Have one of mine. I think I'll have one of yours. Call the barman back in."

…to be continued.


End file.
